


Juliet's Poison

by GlasyaLabolas



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlasyaLabolas/pseuds/GlasyaLabolas
Summary: Izaya Orihara has dreamt of a marigold blond haired man with caramel brown eyes every night of his life since he was age appropriate for soul-mate dreams.





	1. Looking For a Lover Who Needs Another

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, this was just meant to be a long oneshot, I swear.

Izaya Orihara has dreamt of a marigold blond haired man with caramel brown eyes every night of his life since he was age appropriate for soul-mate dreams. Long before his first dream at fifteen, he’s loathed the idea of fate deciding who he should be with, if anyone at all, and that he’s got some ridiculous fairy tale ending predestined by the gods for him. But when his first dream actually hit, he couldn’t deny how curious this other male made him. Izaya could fool himself very well, sometimes better than he did others, but for the lonely young man still experiencing the worst of puberty, fooling himself into thinking he didn’t want someone that understood him at his best and worst was a difficult task.

 

The dreams aren’t controllable, even for those that practice lucid dreaming. They’re just memories and projections of images. For some dreamers, their soul-mate does absolutely nothing, standing as still as a statue. For others, their soul-mate could always be found doing something, like reading or walking. In Izaya’s dreams, his soul-mate always finds him first, even when he actively searches for the them. It peeved the brunet quite a bit when he realized that it’s his pattern. The other man would find him and would want to touch him in some manner. Holding hands, stroking his face, hugging, a particularly wet dream only progressed as far as kissing but was nonetheless embarrassing when he woke up to boxers stained with spunk. Izaya deduces that his soul-mate is the touchy-feely type and is probably actively searching for him. He has no way to know how he appears in their dreams, unless he meets and asks them himself.

 

At high school, Izaya recognizes the face of the man of his dreams from a distance. His legs are weak, staring down at the male from above. He’s not sure if he really wants to approach, what will happen if he meets his destined? There are plenty of stories, the majority good but some nightmarish experiences exist among them. Shinra points the blond out as his friend and says that he wants to introduce them both.

 

Then Shinra _does_ introduce him to Shizuo Heiwajima. Their eyes lock and the expected doesn’t happen. All of the talk about butterflies or sparks or whatever flowery nonsense doesn’t happen. Instead, Shizuo takes a hard swing at him and Izaya has to dodge. The brunet’s stomach has never felt so tarry, his chest never so heavy. He feared suffocation as he fled from the beast on his heels.

 

After their first fight, Izaya gets himself dream suppressants. At best, his sleep is entirely dreamless. At worst, his dreams are massive blurs where he can’t even recognize where he is, much less his soul-mate.

 

Izaya’s soul-mate loathes him more than the brunet himself loathes the idea of being star-crossed with this _monster_. He’s been utterly rejected and he refuses to acknowledge his own pain, refuses to make it seem real and himself human. If his own soul-mate seethes with hatred at the mention of his very name, then there really is no one that Izaya has to belong to or with.

 

Izaya Orihara goes about his life alone, with few if real emotional attachments at all. He makes ruining Shizuo Heiwajima’s life his part-time hobby. Be it out of revenge for heartbreak or out of genuine hatred for the man, it doesn’t matter to him any more. He should have known better, but he was young and still a bit foolishly minded with regards to his role in the world, but now he knows better. Izaya Orihara is alone, has always been alone, and is too much of a coward to ever do anything to change himself to possibly fix that because it means throwing his pathetic excuse of a heart out there to be stepped on.

 

* * *

 

Izaya’s computer beeps with a message from Tsukumoya. It’s a link with a simple sentence attached. “This should interest you greatly.”

 

The URL alone tells the informant that it’s to one of those soul-mate sketch forums. The names are always overly cliché and disgusting. It’s long been common practice for people to hire sketch artists to draw out their descriptions of their soul-mates and then post the images hoping to find them. Newspapers have always had segments dedicated to them, and now the internet has made the search so much easier. Soul-mates found across countries were happening more and more and less lonely people were settling down when they couldn’t find their soul-mate at first.

 

The link sends him straight to a specific post under the Japanese section and there, disbelievingly, is a detailed sketch of himself.

 

Izaya’s fingers jerk away from his mouse and keys. His thinking is as frenzied as his heartbeat. Is this a joke? Why would someone do this? This is a poor attempt at humiliation if it is one at all. This can’t be Shizu-chan’s doing, he doesn’t need to go looking for Izaya in this manner and why would the brute even _bother_?

 

It has never once occurred to Izaya that he might be wrong about figuring out what or, rather, who fate decided for him. Far too crushed, he didn’t want to think about any of it _at all_.

 

Under his penciled image is some text in English: I’m looking for an Asian male. Presumably of Japanese nationality, going by my research into the school uniforms I remember.

 

There’s only one response and Izaya knows that it’s Tsukumoya before reading it. “That is Izaya Orihara,” the reply states in English, even providing the correct kanji for his name, “famed informant of Shinjuku, Tokyo. As his business acquaintance, I can provide you with all of his necessary information, if you’d care to accept a private message.”

 

Izaya’s fingers tremble as they hover above the keys. His soul-mate is going to come looking for him whether he wants them to or not. If they find him, are they just going to stomp all over his weak heart once they figure what he’s really like? He’s petrified but at the same time curious. If the man in his dreams isn’t Shizuo Heiwajima than _who the hell is he?_ What kind of cosmic joke was being played on him if his enemy and soul-mate shared the same face? Was he actually going to feel some guilt over tormenting the blond bodyguard for reasons he never knew of, for things he never callously did?

 

Izaya exits the page when his hands calm down. Change is approaching rapidly, and his brain is bringing up every soul-mate horror story it can recall to force his fight-or-flight instincts into action. He’s not sure if he wants to go looking, the revelation is enough for his mind right now, and regardless, if his soul-mate got his sketch done and posted it up, then they’ll surely get his information from Tsukumoya anyway. Running if Tsukumoya is involved will be useless. Instead, he’s going to meet Shinra and discuss some things.

 

* * *

 

“Wow. I mean, the way you described him, I was absolutely positive it _was_ Shizuo. You’re sure this isn’t a joke or something, Izaya?”

 

The informant rolls his eyes. “What could they possibly gain from this? It just says that they’re looking for me and presumed my nationality based on my old uniforms.” Izaya does have wealth and good looks, but what good are they when everyone is more than happy to verbally express their repulsion to his personality? Then there’s his job that puts many off, with or without the knowledge about his runnings with Yakuza. His soul-mate is probably learning everything about him right now from Tsukumoya or wherever Google takes them. “Pretending to be someone’s soul-mate is impossible and I’m clearly not hiring anyone to be my fake for perception’s sake.”

 

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” Shinra acquiesces as he continues to think about it. “Man, did they luck out with you.” Izaya glares at his friend as he casually laughs.

 

He opens his mouth to speak, but then the door clicks open with the courier and Shinra’s already flying out of his seat to latch onto the supernatural woman like a leech.

 

“Celty, my love! I’ve got interesting news! You might not believe it! Oh, well maybe you will. You never did believe me before. Oh, but how was _your_ day first?” His words are pressed together like paperback novels between bookends.

 

“Shinra,” Izaya says with a bored tone. He didn’t expect this to be kept secret from her and Celty’s trustworthy with the topic anyway.

 

Celty uses her shadows to type on her phone, hands preoccupied in getting the doctor off of her as he relentlessly tries to hug her tightly in greeting. “[What kind of news? Why is Izaya here?]”

 

“You were right, Celty! Shizuo’s soul-mate isn’t Izaya _and_ Izaya’s soul-mate posted to a sketch forum looking for him!”

 

The gloves dematerialize and her fingers twine with Shinra’s to placate him. “[That’s great!]” She’s genuinely happy for the informant. As awful as he is and can be, he’s still worthwhile for _someone_. Celty wants to believe that everyone deserves love, even if there are people that harshly grind against that belief. Maybe his soul-mate can distract him away from some of his horrendous hobbies and help even out his terrible personality, and Shizuo will get some much deserved peace too.

 

“[Did you respond?]”

 

“I didn’t, no.”

 

Celty stares at his blank expression for awhile before typing out, “[You’re not going to talk to them at all? Find out who they are?]”

 

“Someone already replied with my information and I’m not the least bit interested in my _destined_ ,” he spits distastefully. “So, if they want to come find me,” Izaya leans forward on his heels, both hands in his coat pockets, “they can, but _I’m_ not wasting my time on absurd things such as fate or destiny.” He shrugs with his arms out, spreading his coat open wide as his hands stay in the pockets.

 

Izaya’s sure they’ve all thought the same thing by now. Izaya’s soul-mate would have to be stupid or insane to look for him after being briefed on him and his life. Any reasonable person would think the same. Who would want to be in so much constant danger once word gets out? Who would want to be with _that madman_?

 

Izaya leaves without another word to either of them, not wanting to discuss any of this absolute _mess_ any more.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks of nothing passes, then three. No letters, no texts, no calls, no _anything_. Trepidation has been sitting in the pit of Izaya’s stomach like a heavy stone since first seeing the post. It was utterly idiotic to have some sort of detestable _hope_ and he can only blame himself for allowing his heart to _want_ after all of the pain he’s ever felt. What Izaya _really_ wants is a hard drink right now.

 

“Tat-ta for now, dearest Namie,” the brunet leisurely waves at his secretary as he walks out.

 

“ _Where do you think you’re going without--_ ” The door clicks shut, blocking out Namie’s snappy complaint.

 

Izaya rubs his face with his hands as he waits for the elevator. Russia Sushi is the best place for him to get deplorably wasted at. There he can gorge on tuna at the same time and Simon, at the very least, will let him sleep it off there or just carry him back home like he’s transporting a sack of potatoes. Everyone wins, especially as long as Shizuo doesn’t show up and a drunken Izaya can keep his loose lips shut.

 

The elevator arrives with a _ding_ and Izaya’s head rises from his hands at the noise. The doors slide open smoothly and he suddenly feels as if he’s been electrocuted. His nerves are tingling all over, small jolts running through his veins like a wire. There’s a blond man standing in the elevator, looking into Izaya’s eyes through a pair of pink shades. His smile is widening by the second and the brunet’s body is trembling with aftershocks as he gazes back like a deer in headlights.

 

Izaya’s heart is beating as quick as a rabbit’s and he decides to do something extraordinarily _stupid_ ; he turns around and tries to run away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you hard-ship a rarepair, you do what you gotta do. (I.E. create the works yourself.) Seriously though, what am I doing, I hate soulmate AUs almost as viciously as I hate A/B/O AUs. What's my life now?
> 
> As always, comments of any kind are greatly appreciated. Especially criticism or to point out errors, since I'm without a beta reader and doing my own editing. If anyone has tag recommendations for making this fic more accessible or to refine the warnings, please let me know in a comment. Thank you for reading.


	2. Only My Heart Knows My Head is Lying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya's life is either a Greek Comedy or Tragedy.

Izaya manages two long steps before the other man bolts out of the elevator after him. His arm is grabbed and he’s forced back around, spinning on one heel. The blond is pleading something Izaya can’t understand as he keeps a tight grip on his arm, the brunet’s mind is too scattered to accurately place the language being spoken and his best guess is European. Izaya’s first instinct to shrug him off fails miserably and his other hand reacts instantly, switchblade flicking open and pointing at his soul-mate’s neck. Turning around to look and aim the weapon sends another rocking wave of electricity through his body, his hand visibly trembling.

 

“ _Let me go_ ,” Izaya tries authoritatively, but his voice is weak and breathy.

 

The blond looks at him with sadden eyes through his pink shades. His hand slowly rises to encircle the wrist of hand with the blade and Izaya jerks his limb away just before his fingers meet his skin, fearing the touch and its possible effects.

 

Fate is making him pathetic and Izaya loathes it. His movements are as sturdy as gelatin and his lungs are suffocating as if the walls around the two men were closing in on them. Izaya can’t make an accurate assessment if this is entirely the work of their bond seizing him or his own fears of what might come. The blond man doesn’t appear as affected, but Izaya is struggling to analyze anything other than his face. He misses the most glaringly obvious detail of visible wealth; the adorned pristine white suit. His eyes don’t want to look at anything else once he’s gazing back into the other man’s eyes and – _this is dangerous_.

 

“You speak English, correct?” The blond asks and the hairs on the back of Izaya’s neck straighten at the familiar baritone. He doesn’t just share that monster’s appearance.

 

Izaya wants to fake stupidity, but Tsukumoya was assuredly the one that told his soul-mate that tidbit and his mouth isn’t cooperating as the grip on his arm is loosened just enough to slide down to his hand. _He has callouses_ , Izaya dumbly thinks as fingers twine around his own, his brain filing that information away as if it were of grave importance.

 

The brunet swallows and admits, “Yes.”

 

The other man smiles and Izaya can feels the brightness lightening his stomach. “I’m not adverse to chasing, but… Please don’t run away again.” His voice is as smooth and as rich as chocolate, completely confident in the second language.

 

“Doesn’t this… _This_ bother you?” Izaya manages awkwardly. He wonders if those sparks he felt have frayed the wiring in his brain.

 

“This?”

 

“This…” He starts clunky, gesturing the knife between the two of them. “Stifling and numbing current. Don’t you _feel_ any of _this_?”

 

“I feel _you_ ,” he says simply, the pads of his fingers stroking the back of Izaya’s hand. “I believe that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

 

His caramel brown eyes are so sincere and focused on the brunet’s face that Izaya’s beginning to feel scrutinized as well as warm.

 

“How could you want _this_?” _Me?_ Izaya shakes his head dismissively, switchblade lowering. “Neither of us got a choice in this.”

 

“You don’t always get choices, sometimes you just have to play with the cards you’re dealt.” The blond shrugs minutely, his words cutting into Izaya callously.

 

He follows along with the analogy, “So, you’re _fine_ with just letting the house win?”

 

The other man’s lip twitches upward, his eyes sparkling. Izaya’s stomach drops as their other hand rises and cups his cheek delicately. “Looking at you, I’ve always felt blessed by Lady Luck herself.”

 

Izaya’s face flushes like a school girl and he feels humiliated by it, someone pointing out his attractive features shouldn’t affect him so.

 

“May I kiss you?” The blond leans forward, a few feet taller than the informant, and his tenderly voiced question hits Izaya’s chest like a ram. His heart is stuttering with a _yes, absolutely_ as his mind scrambles for an excuse, _any excuse_ , to say no. They haven’t even introduced themselves yet, why does he want to kiss this stranger!?

 

“ _I don’t know you_.”

 

He draws back without any signs of hurt from the rejection. “Then, if you’re free, I’d love to talk. If you’re not, as long as you promise to come back, I’ll wait here all day.”

 

“Now that you’ve found me, you’re not going to leave without cause, are you?” The blond’s smile says everything and Izaya sighs placatingly. “Follow me.”

 

The informant pockets his switchblade and leads his soul-mate back to his apartment. It doesn’t occur to Izaya that their hands are still locked together or that he’s tightened his hold at all. His body is beginning to feel like his own again, the surges and strange feelings that had sundered his body disappearing or becoming more acquainted with and stabilizing into more normal feelings. _Butterflies_ , he wants to bitterly laugh. He had felt shot, like some prey that stepped into the sharp teeth of a trap. _Ridiculous romanticized nonsense._

 

Namie’s glare is on him in an instant as the door opens.

 

“You’re dismissed for today, Namie.”

 

“I’m not finished with--”

 

Izaya interjects with a flat tone, “Double pay, please leave immediately.”

 

Her glare is unrelenting, but she leaves briskly all the same. The blond nods politely as she walks by them, unphased by the cold, analyzing glance she gives him. As the door shuts with a _click_ , Izaya finally notices their hands and shakes his free. Neither of them really want to let go, but Izaya is still uncomfortable so close to the other man. He’s reluctantly let go and allowed to step back to put some much needed distance between them.

 

“Your secretary?”

 

Izaya ignores the stupid question, cutting right to what he wants answered. “How much has Tsukumoya told you?”

 

“What others would know, I suppose. And some rumors, they mentioned.”

 

“So, my job?” The blond nods. “My connections with Yakuza?” Another nod. “Yet you still came here from…?”

 

“Greece,” he supplies. His eyes light up as he remembers the bag he left sitting by the elevators when he had to chase the brunet. “I brought you red wine from my home country.” At least Izaya can still get drunk once he convinces the man to leave, if he even can convince him.

 

“I bought a bouquet on my way over as well, but I dropped them in the elevator when you tried to flee. You don’t strike me as the type to enjoy the gesture anyway.” Izaya’s apartment is modern and barren of personal effects, even a vase of flowers couldn’t give the place life.

 

“I’m not,” Izaya easily admits. The other man’s curling lips give him the feeling that he’s not dissuaded from future purchases anyway.

 

“Why would you come here in person, instead of sending a message?” No one just shows up to their soul-mate for the first time not knowing that something inside of them will react and change them in some manner. When he was a teenager, Izaya would’ve accepted that, but now? This man has denied him a choice in the matter. Then again, Izaya knew he was being searched for and he didn’t actively hide.

 

“Isn’t it better to meet your soul-mate in person for the first time? To feel that rush of _life_ when you first lock eyes?”

 

“Is _that_ what you felt?”

 

“I felt _you_ and you made me feel _alive_.”

 

Izaya’s heart is beating a rapid rhythm and he’s starting to lose his patience with this man. “Why aren’t you concerned about the amount of danger you’re in with me?”

 

The blond seems to share his annoyance, his eyes narrowing. “You seem to have this assumption that you’re the only dangerous one between us. Or that I should care either way.”

 

It only now occurs to Izaya that the man hadn’t been phased by the knife aimed at him earlier. This man must be a crazy fool, he _has_ to be. What other kind of human being crosses the ocean to step foot on foreign soil where they could be kidnapped and shot in the head because destiny thought it was hilarious to tie them to a man with so many enemies just itching for a weakness to exploit. Only an insane love-struck loon like Shinra would do such a thing and the comparative thought alone makes Izaya sick.

 

Izaya’s hand kneads his temple. “What’s your name?”

 

“Delic,” he says slowly so Izaya can pick up the pronunciation.

 

“ _Just_ Delic?”

 

“Yes,” he says as if that’s not an issue. “Like Cher.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Delic makes a soft noise, reaching into his pants’ pocket for his phone. It takes a minute for the blond to find whatever it is he’s searching for before he presents the phone to Izaya. It’s a muted video of a concert. Izaya instantly recognizes the man on stage as the man in front of him, glittery make-up or not.

 

“A fucking pop-star,” the brunet angrily spits in Japanese. There’s no way he can be seen with man, Izaya’s reputation would ruin his career. He doesn’t want that or _this_ ; the proposition of a relationship. He wants to go back to being fine with loneliness, to forget everything this man has forced him to feel against his will and desire.

 

“Izaya?” Delic blinks at him with confusion. The thick accent wrapping his name makes Izaya’s gut coil. He can’t tell if it’s the accent itself or just the other man saying his name that makes him feel warm and weak. He can’t deal with this, he doesn’t want to deal with this.

 

Izaya turns on his heels and walks into the kitchen, the other man curiously following. He opens a cabinet and fits his fingers around the necks of two glasses. “Well, Delic,” he says as he turns to the blond, “Where’s the wine?”

 

The man of his dreams smiles, bright and wide, and holds up his index finger. “One moment, Gorgeous,” he murmurs in Greek. As he leaves to go retrieve his bag, Izaya glares daggers at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soul-mate AUs are weird, yo.
> 
> I really appreciate all of your comments and feedback! As always, correcting errors and tagging my fic for better accessibility is a top priority of mine.


	3. Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Izaya drinks with his problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to start with a bit of a selfish apology for last and this chapter. I forced myself a bit too much while writing chapter two and pushed it out too soon in my opinion and, as such, I feel like I've skewed Izaya's characterization a tad, especially with how strong chapter one was. I can't excuse it all away with soulmate magic. I grew a bit downtrodden with this fic as a result, as I do try to keep up with my own standards and I felt that I had fallen short due to being in a bad place while writing, and so this chapter was left to sit a bit.

After seeing the post, Izaya ceased taking dream suppressants. He had to make sure that his younger self wasn’t wrong about the appearance of his soul-mate without a reasonable doubt. He had walked his dream-scape waiting to be found and, sure enough, he was. The other young man, baring maturity defining his features, hadn’t changed. He still looked as Izaya remembered him; as Shizuo Heiwajima. Fate had truly decided to be so cruel to him.

 

Izaya examines the bottle of wine offered to him. He can’t read any of the label, all of the wording in Greek, but it’s not tampered with, as far as he can tell. “Agiorgitiko,” Delic had murmured while popping the cork after watching the other man and Izaya’s left to assume that it’s the name of the wine. Delic fills Izaya’s glass first like a proper gentleman and Izaya doesn’t waste time tasting it. The red liquid has a kick to it, even though it is sweeter than he prefers.

 

“This won’t work,” the brunet says, his eyes on his drink as he swirls the liquid inside. “Soul-mate or not, I don’t want a _relationship_.”

 

“I believe you do,” Delic says with a blasé tone and a swig of his drink.

 

“Excuse me,” he laughs agitatedly, “Do you think that because you’re _destined_ to me that you _know_ me and what _I_ want?”

 

“No, but you ran away instead of telling me to piss off immediately and… Well.” Delic gestures between them and their drinks. “You’re conversing with me.”

 

“Are you selectively deaf? Have you heard nothing that I’ve said?”

 

“I’ve heard it all, my dear. You keep presenting reasons why we can’t do this – most of which are _shit_ , by the way – but you’re not giving me reasons why you don’t want to try, apart from that you don’t want to. But then, why not?”

 

“I don’t need the attachment, I’m fine by myself. In fact, I prefer it. And I certainly don’t need someone hanging on to me like a pathetic lovestruck puppy. I don’t need or want _fate_ screwing with my head and my body anymore than it already has.”

 

“Ah,” Delic exhales after Izaya’s calm outburst. He takes a larger sip of his drink before stating, “You’re scared.”

 

“You _really_ are dense,” the brunet spits with contempt.

 

“I usually hear stubborn.”

 

“That too.”

 

Izaya glares as the man refills his glass. His heart has begun beating quicker again and he has to take another sip of his drink in effort to calm it. Everything from the books he’s read on the subject of soul-mates to his heath class in middle school swirls in Izaya’s brain like the wine in his glass. _Fate will set you with the other half of your soul_ , one had read romantically. Izaya remembers dropping that book in the garbage bin where it belonged. A much more clinical book had read: _People are ever evolving, their experiences changing them as they grow. Studies show that fate sets you with the person that will change in a manner complementary to your own, be it negative or positive. Studies with_ _current and former_ _drug addicts show that their soul-mates can either rehabilitate them or harder set them on their mutual path of self-destruction._

 

“Ever since I was young, I’ve wanted nothing more than to mean something to someone.” Delic’s simple words and honest voice cut into Izaya’s thoughts like one of the blades on his person. “I suppose I have achieved that with my music, but meaning something to millions of faceless fans isn’t the same as belonging to someone that makes me feel as alive as the spotlights and the cheering.”

 

“If that is what I desire most in this life, what must you desire to be meant to be with me? For me to complete you?” The blond asks quietly, the softness in his eyes tell Izaya that he must have thought about this a lot. The reverence and adoration he’s being gazed at with is all he’s ever wanted but, for some reason, his gut churns with discomfort.

 

The brunet licks his lips, inhaling slowly. He holds out his glass for the other man to refill. Delic does so obediently, pushing things too far for Izaya’s liking as his hand covers the brunet’s to hold his glass steady. He hasn’t drank enough to be tipsy yet and he’s not trembling, there’s no excuse for the gesture besides for their skin to meet again. Izaya doesn’t like the warmth that blooms from it, nor can he blame it on the alcohol.

 

“Your romanticism of our situation makes me want to vomit,” Izaya mocks casually.

 

“You _are_ blushing though, Izaya.”

 

His name dressed with that accented tongue spears him in the chest. “I’m drinking,” he retorts, taking another swig of his wine for show.

 

“ _Sure_ ,” Delic dismisses with a chuckle.

 

The man won’t take any of his No’s and reasoning’s for an answer to not pursue him. Izaya feels left to one final play before desperation bites at his heels. He pounds back his half full glass in one go before setting it on the counter-top with a light _clink_. “I can’t have you here,” he says, voice slightly croaky from the rush of alcohol down his throat. Izaya’s pulled his phone out of his pocket, scrolling for the image he needs. Once found, he holds out the device for the other male.

 

“This is Shizuo Heiwajima. As you can tell, you two could pass for twins.” The blond gazes at the photograph in wonder as he continues. “He’s my enemy, we’ve been trying to kill one another for years.”

 

“You thought he was me,” Delic concludes quickly. His eyes lift off of the picture to gaze back into Izaya’s eyes with sadness. Something about the pitiful expression makes Izaya’s gut churn. “I’m _so_ sorry.”

 

“This isn’t a picture of a man; he’s a monster. He throws metal trashcans, fully stocked vending machines, and cars like they’re paper balls.”

 

“Are you trying to convince me that distance will keep me safe? I already said--”

 

“I’m trying to appeal to your intelligence, despite how little there seems to be, so that you understand that you _will_ be in the crossfire of not only my job but in his wrath in your futile pursuit of me. You seem to lack self-preservation instincts entirely, so I’m left to assume that you _must_ be an idiot.”

 

“Izaya.” Delic’s voice is as stern as his expression has morphed to be. His posture and hardened eyes are demanding attention and silence. Izaya’s lips thin, eyebrows turning down. The blond picks up the empty, abandoned glass by the bowl and holds it over the kitchen sink. He holds it a little lower in the sink so Izaya’s forced to inch closer to see where he’s going with this.

 

Cracks form in the clear glass before the wine glass is shattered in his hand, pieces falling apart and dropping into the empty sink. Delic’s hand doesn’t cease adding pressure and Izaya can hear the crunching of the shards of glass trapped between his fingers. When the blond’s fingers finally stop and open, small fragments and specks of razor sharp dust drop from his palm. His skin is absent of cuts, instead some of the leftover wine sticks to his hand and clings some of the ruined glass to his skin.

 

“Whoever comes looking for me in a misguided attempt to hurt you, will not be the first to try something on my life.”

 

Delic’s stony eyes are still on Izaya, his voice assured in every word. “You’re scared of being hurt emotionally and I understand that, but I have never stopped myself from going after what my heart sings for. I want happiness for the both of us and I don’t care much about the details. Just give me the opportunity to give you all of the feelings I feel when I look at you.”

 

Silence lingers as the two gaze back at one another. Izaya’s heart beats a frantic rhythm. The very thought of putting himself out there again to be hurt petrifies him. This man freely admits that he will chase him down until he gives in if he tries running again, so he’s trapped, right? His heart is trying to convince him that it won’t be so bad, being understood and having someone. It’s all he’s ever hoped for, right? Everyone else seems to have someone except the lone wannabe god. The brunet’s mind is so set in its ways though, at least until their skin touches and it’s a frayed mess again. He feels brain-damaged when their flesh meets, his mind struggling to find coherent thought. The experience is choking and baring, but it’s also dizzying and airy and that _almost_ feels good.

 

Eventually, Izaya pierces the quiet with his voice. “You’re an unrelenting monster, Delic.”

 

“I usually hear bastard.”

 

“That too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe this story has one to two more chapters left for it. Then likely a bonus chapter featuring Shizuo and his soulmate, because I myself began to the shipping slot machine for who the hell I'd pair for him in this context. (My shipping preferences for Izaya are so much smaller compared to Shizuo's.)
> 
> I really appreciate all of your comments and feedback! As always, correcting errors and tagging my fic for better accessibility is a top priority of mine.

**Author's Note:**

> When you hard-ship a rarepair, you do what you gotta do. (I.E. create the works yourself.) Seriously though, what am I doing, I hate soulmate AUs almost as viciously as I hate A/B/O AUs. What's my life now?
> 
> As always, comments of any kind are greatly appreciated. Especially criticism or to point out errors, since I'm without a beta reader and doing my own editing. If anyone has tag recommendations for making this fic more accessible or to refine the warnings, please let me know in a comment. Thank you for reading.


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